


Of Dreams and Revolutions

by Chikabow



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Historical, M/M, Russian Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 21:50:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16395743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chikabow/pseuds/Chikabow
Summary: The passing tank sends Yuta into reflection.





	Of Dreams and Revolutions

An engine’s rumbling echoed outside. Another tank passing by.

 

The town hadn’t seen rest since the so called “allied” forces arrived. The port was seized and fishing halted. Only military vessels were allowed to use it. Most fishing boats had either been destroyed or confiscated.

 

Further in, the streets continued empty for the most part. People no longer walked freely, and the market was but a shadow of what it once was. 

 

Even so, people talked, people gathered. Tales of what took place in the west circulated; their veracity doubtable. Rumours said some revolutionaries had taken the government. That Petrograd was in the hands of these so called soviets. 

 

There hadn’t been much support for such councils in those parts, only recently connected by rail. It was also said that the war in Europe had ended for Russia, that this new government had ended it. The men hadn’t returned from it, though.

 

Instead, Japanese and Americans roamed the streets, patrolling. From the few that grasped the language, the locals had understood that they were intervening in the civil war. That they were helping the white army.

 

For most of the locals, whites or reds were all the same: power-hungry and in love with some overglorified ideals. Whatever the government, things remained the same: scarcely any food to eat and even more scarce worry. Some had seen their sons leave for Moscow and Petrograd. In those cities, the revolution was being made, they said.

 

Reduced to cowering in their houses, they waited for the time these so-called allies gave up on their intervention.

 

The same was true for Yuta, although not for the same reasons. Those overglorified ideals, as the inhabitants called them, were his passion. When he read of them, he saw how impacting they’d be. He had to see them implemented. Society would progress, and it would do so fairly. He had never been a fan of the emperorship. When the hunt for these socialists began, it only served to deepen his resentment.

 

He saw how Osaka was a dead end, how Japan wouldn’t see him succeed. People were stuck in that backward mentality. Some lucky guy would get to reign the nation as he pleased by birthright? And people did not even seem bothered by it? They just accepted it? That was not the country for Yuta.

 

And, like that, he embarked on the first ship Vladivostok bound. 

 

Russia. The great expanse of land where the people had, were and would continue on revolting. The Tsardom would be no more, and the people would reclaim power to themselves. No longer would the lives of the people be served on a platter to the foreign guns. The rich aristocrats could no longer hide in their gilded palaces, walled from the cold and hunger.

 

This was Yuta’s dream. He felt it his calling. 

 

When he disembarked, he saw life wouldn’t be a road of glory. He was stranded in a strange town, in a foreign country. He couldn’t communicate properly and barely had any money on him.

 

With a textbook stolen from the university library in Osaka, he taught himself the most he could of the language. It wasn’t much. Although he was educated, learning a foreign language without the help of a native proved itself a challenge.

 

His luck was finding this old man, sitting in a pier with a rod in hands, staring into the sea. He was Japanese, and in exchange for Yuta doing the heavy work, the old man taught him Russian.

 

His routine became that. He’d spend most of his day in a nearby forest, cutting down trees and seeing to the replanting. He’d separate the good timber and bring it to the old man’s house. The twigs and unfit wood could be used as firewood.

 

He stayed in the room of the old man’s son. Yuta learned that the son went westwards, for the revolution. The man would rant about how a much of a fool his son was, getting involved in others’ fights for nothing. Yuta wouldn’t say anything. Although he agreed with the man’s son, Yuta wouldn't be the one to contradict the man under his own roof. He saw how the man loathed those revolutionary ideals for what they had done to his son.

 

Soon thereafter, Yuta became more confident in his Russian. He’d always considered himself outspoken and sociable. And what better way to train a foreign language than to speak it with the natives?

 

That was when the troops started arriving in mass. But these weren’t revolutionaries nor were they Russians. He saw the town overrun with his countrymen and countless others. People from countries he had only heard of: Canada, United States and even Italy. 

 

He saw fit to continue hiding his true intentions in Russia. 

 

When visiting a local woodworker, he saw a boy. A boy that captured his attention. Timid and gentle, he cut the wood with precision and serrated it with grace. But what captured his attention was the boy’s beauty. He was unlike any other Yuta had ever seen. Soft and perfectly drawn features distinguished him from others. If Yuta didn’t know better, he’d say he was a prince from the times of old. One of those delicate courtiers of Ming surrounded by riches and beauty summoned right out off a romance.

 

This made Yuta return frequently. He’d confirmed the family was chinese and that they had been living there for a long while. That they had been in the wood business since they could remember.

 

One day, Yuta gathered the courage to speak to the boy directly. Sicheng, he was told. Uncommonly timid, Yuta became bolder in the next engagements. He’d make up orders just to have an excuse to talk to the boy. 

 

After a while, he invited the boy to hang out. Fun was scarce in those days. The troops hadn’t left town, and the movement of the inhabitants was restricted. Anyone could be siding with the revolution. 

 

Sicheng accepted; said he didn’t have many friends and that he was glad Yuta wanted to be his. 

 

A month passed, and Yuta had never been as close to someone as he was with Sicheng. He had no idea what he was feeling. Was it the comfort of having a true friend in a foreign land? Was it love? If he had to choose, he’d probably choose the latter. 

 

One day, this led to Yuta willingly losing control and risking it all. In Sicheng’s room, he leaned in to kiss him. Sicheng kissed back. Knowing that Sicheng liked him too, filled Yuta with all kinds of feelings. Elation was one way to put it. Ecstasy another. He just knew happiness didn’t cut it.

 

It was love with no space for doubts.

 

They packed their things and moved into an empty house in town.

 

That didn’t mean Yuta had forgotten the old man. He still visited him regularly, asked him if he needed anything. He had become something akin to a father to Yuta, just as Yuta had become a son to the man.

 

Sicheng didn’t forget his job at the workshop either.

 

Things showed no sign of improvement in the military situation. News from the west was close to none. The stationed troops were mostly Japanese, and that bothered Yuta. He had gone there to escape Japan’s tight grip. Instead, he’d found himself back in it.

 

What he feared the most was Sicheng discovering he was a socialist. What would his reaction be? 

 

“You’re one of those?” Sicheng asked, surprised.

 

“Do you hate us? Do you hate me?” Yuta asked, going straight to the point. His hands trembled with nervousness. Still, he thought it better to make it quick. He could not bear to not know what Sicheng thought of him.

 

“No. I don’t,” Sicheng stated, going back to his normal, calm state. “I was just surprised. I don’t really care about those things.”

 

“What do you mean you don’t care about these things?”

 

“Those matters of politics don’t affect me, and I’ve better things to entertain myself with.”

 

“How can you say that? Politics are of utmost importance! We must make sure things are set right. We deserve to live decently, and those aristocrats don’t deserve to live in excess.”

 

“Those aristocrats are far away,” Sicheng stated. “They don’t affect us. We don’t live well because winter is harsh and the harvest bad. I’d say the gods have more of a say on our lives.”

 

Yuta thought that it would be better to agree on disagreeing. At least, Sicheng accepted him and his ideologies. That was what the most he could ask of him.

 

In the following months, Yuta became more open to talking about his ideas and dreams with Sicheng. The younger one listened intently to his love’s inflamed albeit low spoken speeches.

 

Yuta didn’t think he’d ever convince Sicheng of his ideals, or any political ideals at all. But Sicheng told him things like:

 

“We’ll save up and when this war is over, we’ll take the train to Petrograd. You’ll be able to see your party friends.”

 

Although he wasn’t in any party, mostly due to the lack of opportunity, Yuta treasured Sicheng’s words.

 

He’d daydream of stepping off the train, Sicheng by his side. He would see Europe, how people were and how they lived there. He’d be able to see the results of the revolution. He’d see his comrades working for the benefit of all, not just a selected few. And finally he’d be able to see the soviets in action; to enter those councils and discuss the future of the nation, of the revolution.

 

But for now, he could only watch Sicheng prepare dinner and stare through the window at the setting sun and the passing tank.

**Author's Note:**

> This work has no political connotation. I hope you enjoyed it and comment if you can!


End file.
